by David Harley
Matt told his driver to wait five minutes, to make sure Crouch’s caravan was well ahead of them. He needed to cut himself off from everything that had gone before. Time stood still as Matt first sat in silence, taking it all in, and then told the driver they could leave. The rain stopped and the sky cleared as Matt began his dreamy, unforgettable journey, first speeding through the outer suburbs, past the sun-kissed semis shyly preening themselves in the early-morning light, before picking up speed between the high-rise office buildings along the Great West Road, across from the gleaming temple of Westfield shopping centre. He heard the faint growl of a helicopter flying directly overhead. After a nod to the wisteria-clad townhouses on Cheyne Walk, and to the bustling stretch of river opposite, they turned into Horseferry Road and right into Tufton Street. At they entered the road, the driver slammed on the brakes: the street was already packed with a rapturous crowd waiting for Matt’s arrival.
Soon the car could advance no further and Matt decided to walk the last hundred yards. After the police had made a narrow channel, Matt began his procession through the cheering throng, shaking hands, kissing babies and old ladies, thanking everyone, calmly taking in the extraordinary fact that his chance – their chance – to turn the country round and heal the wounds had finally come.
‘Justice Now,’ the crowd chanted, over and over again, alternating with ‘Crouch Out, Crouch Out’.
‘Kick them where it hurts,’ an elderly man shouted in his ear. ‘Never forgive, never forget. They’re traitors and we want revenge. Make the bastards scream with pain before we kill them.’
‘That’s not the way we do things,’ replied Matt, but the man had turned away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Matt would never forget the tears of joy on the faces of his closest supporters when he entered the SOCA headquarters that morning, with dawn breaking over London, and the office lit up by the sun streaming in through the windows and the central skylight. Swept up by an immense wave of relief and sense of accomplishment, they deserved their moment of glory. Messages of congratulations and support poured in from all over the country and around the world. Previously sworn enemies shamelessly declared undying friendship and unqualified support. As SOCA won seat after seat, and the nationalists’ defeat became clear, Matt’s people looked on open-mouthed, almost frightened by the scale of their victory that exceeded all predictions. In the course of a few hours during the night, the old politics had been swept away and the face of the country changed beyond recognition.
The Whitehall machine was not to be outdone in the business of pirouetting and operating three hundred and sixty-degree turns. Shortly after five o’clock in the morning, Matt was standing on a table, celebrating with a glass of water, when an immense cheer lifted the rafters: the Alliance had passed the magic threshold of 326 seats and had won an overall majority in the House of Commons. Barely thirty seconds later, the call came through from the cabinet secretary.
In his rare dealings with Sir Christopher Jenks, Matt had always found him distant and unresponsive. A major league hand-wringer and arse-licker – which to give him his due were probably both necessary qualifications for the job – Matt had always found him too obviously and unctuously close to Crouch. Today the tone of his voice sounded warm, almost purring with pleasure. Matt jumped off the table and shut himself in his office to take the call.
‘Congratulations, Mr Barker,’ said Jenks. ‘We’re all delighted at the result. Personally, I was expecting it – it’s great news for the country.’
Do these people have any feelings of their own behind the smooth-talking facade? Matt wondered.
‘We’re here to make sure the transition is as smooth and orderly as possible, and to deal with any bumps in the road that might crop up.’
‘Bumps?’ asked Matt. ‘What do you mean? The result’s perfectly clear. Surely there’s a procedure Mr Crouch is obliged to follow? He’s presumably packing his suitcase as we speak. ’
Matt heard Jenks clear his throat.
‘Of course, you want to get started right away, that’s perfectly natural. The entire civil service is looking forward to giving you their full support, and helping you to achieve your objectives, just as soon as you’ve crossed the threshold.’
‘What threshold? I’ve just won the election – what else do I have to do?’
‘Just show a little compassion to your opponent, Mr Barker, that’s all I’m suggesting. This result was a shock to the outgoing prime minister – ’
‘- Everyone knew he was likely to lose. Where’s he been the past few weeks – ’
‘- and he may need a few hours to come to terms with his defeat. Nothing to be worried about, I’ve already been in touch with the Palace. You’ll get the call this afternoon from Timothy Fitzjohn, His Majesty’s private secretary, and the King will ask you to form a government. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all, don’t hesitate.’
Still as smarmy as ever, but at least he’s trying to be helpful, or pretending to be.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ Matt replied. ‘I’m glad to hear you’re respecting the constitution and applying the usual procedures – I’d expect nothing less. Mr Crouch lost the election, so he has to leave Number Ten as soon as possible. I suggest you send round the removal vans.’
Matt heard another half-stifled cough at the other end of the line.
‘Of course, I completely agree. I’ll try to get him out by lunchtime,’ said Jenks. ‘There’s a car waiting for you in the street below, if you’d like to go home and get a couple of hours’ rest. You’ll find a file on the back seat with a list of the more pressing issues facing the new government, and some modest suggestions from my side on how you might wish to deal with them. Feel free to call me any time.’
‘Give me an hour or two and I’ll get back to you.’
The call over, Matt looked out of the window, and saw a silver grey Jaguar parked on double yellow lines on the opposite side of the road. Two dark-suited men stood next to it on the pavement. The transition was already under way and the system seemed well oiled. The same state that for months had tried to destroy him was now offering its protection. The sole difference was that, in a few hours, he would be holding the reins of power.
Sam came to stand next to him.
‘So those are the two men that are going to whisk you away from me,’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder.
He tried to smile but couldn’t deny it. That was the choice he had made.
‘Do you trust them and what they represent?’
‘Of course. We don’t have any choice. We’re the leaders now– we mustn’t make the same mistake as our opponents and govern the country in an atmosphere of permanent mistrust. Despite everything that’s happened, our institutions are stronger than ever, and the majority of the people are behind us. Thank God England’s still a democracy.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Crouch was back in the War Room, surrounded by assorted generals, admirals and air marshals, each looking supremely self-important and none of them so much as even pretending to show him the slightest respect. He had been ordered to sit at the bottom end of the table, and left there to languish, ignored while the military brass chatted noisily among themselves. He hadn’t been allowed to bring anyone with him, and when he asked the way to the washroom, he was told that no one was allowed to leave the room, for security reasons. From time to time someone would look in his direction, mutter something inaudible behind their hands to the people sitting next to them, and burst into laughter.
This wasn’t the outcome Crouch had anticipated. The lights were too bright and the room lacked air. He could feel the nausea rising, and looked around for a suitable receptacle in case he had to be sick. He couldn’t find one, not even a paper bag or a waste-paper basket. In desperation, he tried some deep breathing exercises that Valentina had taught him when they had gone together on a yoga retreat in the Swiss Alps. How the world had change
d.
At last General McIntyre called the meeting to order and everyone immediately stopped talking and sat up straight. McIntyre looked straight at Crouch, staring him down.
‘I’m not sure you understand. You’re no longer in power.’
Crouch heard the odd titter of laughter from the more senior officers around the table. From their amused expressions, he could see that they enjoyed nothing more than the drubbing and dressing-down of an uppity civilian. When the man in the stocks was a politician, their happiness was complete.
‘But you told me I could remain as prime minister, even if I lost the election …’
Crouch was embarrassed by how reedy his voice sounded. He would try to pitch it lower.
‘Quite so,’ said McIntyre. ‘I’m an officer and a man of his word. You will stay as PM –’
‘Thank you –’
‘- on two conditions. First, you’ll do what we tell you. The crisis in the country is too serious to be dealt with by a single individual. You’ll preside over a government of national unity, except that you won’t take any decisions. Is that clear?’
Crouch sat perfectly still but his mind was racing. Don’t give anything away, he kept saying to himself, don’t show any emotion. McIntyre had forced him into a corner and now he had to find a means of escape. Should he save his skin or stand up for his principles? It took Crouch less than a nanosecond to find the answer to that question: for anyone placed in the position in which he now found himself, the first objective logically had to be survival and getting out of the room unscathed. He would think about standing up for his principles later – in the meantime, they could look after themselves.
‘Throughout my long political career,’ he began, but stopped himself as he saw that half the room was yawning and the other half rolling their eyes. ‘I have always been guided by the national interest.’
This seemed to generate further amusement.
The Chief Marshal of the Air Force waded in. Flanked by two stern-looking female officers, he had a long thin face and an air of impatience.
‘Tell me honestly, Prime Minister, do you really believe all that crap?’
His fellow officers fell about.
A florid-cheeked Rear Admiral decided to make a contribution.
‘You’re among friends, Crouch. I know it’s not exactly second nature for you politicians, but why don’t you speak honestly for once. Tell us what you really believe. Then we can judge if you’re the right man to act as the figurehead we need in these troubled times. Just tell us the truth.’
There were all looking at him now. He knew he mustn’t show any weakness. He searched for the right words.
Before he could open his mouth, General McIntyre delivered another blast.
‘The second condition is that you remain inside Number Ten for the next twenty-four hours. Keep schtum. You must have no contact with the outside world – neither with your officials, nor the media, and certainly not with your revolting Russian tart –’
‘- That’s no way –’
‘Don’t interrupt.’ McIntyre was red in the face and glowering. ‘When the nation was facing its gravest peril, you spent your nights shagging an enemy agent.’
Doubtless the general was jealous of Crouch’s sexual prowess. Which was a small matter of satisfaction, but didn’t make him any less dangerous.
McIntyre recomposed himself, and banged his fist on the table.
‘So that’s the deal. We run the country and you stay out of the public eye. If you don’t like it, we can easily find someone else. The home secretary, for example, is standing ready to do her duty if called. You’re a spent force, Crouch. You’re lucky to be alive, after all the damage you’ve done and your pathetic showing in the election. You’re only useful to us because for the people who don’t follow these things too closely – in other words, the vast majority of the population - you symbolise continuity. We need to keep your supporters onside – the few that remain – to prevent Barker getting anywhere near Downing Street. Most of them will say, “If that old arsehole Crouch is still in Number Ten, that means the rebels have lost”, and they’ll feel reassured. Do you accept?’
There was a long pause before Crouch replied. He had to sort out a couple of practical points first, before getting on to the high politics and questions of loyalty. It was a question of focussing on the priorities.
‘Can I keep the car and the flat?’
General McIntyre peered over his glasses.
‘Of course, if that’s what’s important to you. We get the power, you keep the trappings. That sounds like a sensible compromise - thank you for your understanding. You’ll now be escorted back to your quarters, where you’ll remain until we judge the time is right for you to re-emerge. You must have no contact with the cabinet secretary or the outside world. For your safety and wellbeing, the flat will be placed under armed guard. If you need anything, just let them know. You’re dismissed.’
Two military policemen took up position behind Crouch’s chair as he stood up. Each took one of his elbows and guided him towards the door leading into the tunnel.
‘Everything’s in place for tomorrow,’ he heard McIntyre say. ‘Barker’s finished, and Crouch is under house arrest. The troops will take up position during the night. Tell the Palace they can call Barker now. Make sure they record his conversation with the King.’
The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The waiting was getting on Matt’s nerves. He had shut himself in his office to get a couple of hours’ sleep on the sofa, but the myriad implications of his election victory continued to swirl around his head. In vain he tried to stop thinking about the millions of people whose lives would be directly affected by his every decision from now on. From his first seconds in office, he would have to demonstrate beyond any doubt that he was up to the job. His enemies would be watching and waiting for his first wrong move, and would show no pity. He couldn’t afford the slightest slip-up. His body was exhausted but his mind wouldn’t stand still. He felt shattered yet he had to show supreme self-confidence. He could see no rational explanation for Crouch’s delay in handing over power.
At five o’clock in the afternoon, his nerves frayed and his impatience rising, Matt turned on the electric kettle and made himself a cup of tea. A whole day had passed, without any contact from either the Palace or Downing Street. The only news was that Crouch, despite Jenks’s promise that he would be out by lunchtime, had refused to budge from Number Ten. Jenks must have either misread Crouch’s reaction to his defeat, or his phone call to Matt had been a deliberate attempt to butter him up and play for time. Matt already felt let down, before he had even taken office, by the man who was supposed to become his most trusted adviser. Such ambivalence was typical of snotty-nosed civil servants like Jenks, who were congenitally incapable of coming off the fence. He wasn’t going to put up with this outdated work culture of smarmy hypocrisy. These people thought they possessed a God-given licence to run the country in perpetuity. They didn’t know it yet, but they would be in for a shock.
‘What’s going on?’ Matt asked Jenks on the phone. ‘You told me yesterday he’d be out within hours. Instead he’s gone to ground like a frightened rabbit. Either your judgement’s seriously impaired, or you didn’t tell me the truth.’
‘Mr Barker, I assure you, I would never – ’
‘Get this sorted, or your job’s on the line. I’ll give you and Crouch twenty-four hours, and then if necessary I’ll occupy Downing Street by force. Yours will be the first head to roll.’
The official position was that Crouch was taking soundings from other parties in an attempt to build a new majority. The Downing Street spokeswoman added that the outgoing prime minister had the constitutional right and duty to examine all available options that could provide the country with stability and continuity. Matt knew that was nonsense – the numbers simply didn’t stack up.
All kinds of unsubstantiat
ed rumours circulated feverishly around Whitehall. The media were frantic. Crouch was having a nervous breakdown, or was negotiating another position. The nationalists had put a pistol to his head and were forcing him to stay in power. The President of the United States had told him that the survival of NATO depended on the ENP remaining in government. An eminent psychiatrist had claimed that Matt Barker’s mental health issues made him unfit for office.
‘You’ve got to cut through all this nonsense, and show your face,’ said Sam. ‘As the next Prime Minister, you must be the voice of reason that people can rely on. You should reassure them that you’re ready to take power at any moment, and this absurd waiting game has to end.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, and began to scribble down a few lines. A few minutes later, grim-faced but outwardly serene, Matt went down to face the hysterical hordes of hacks outside the Tufton Street office. He stood behind a makeshift wooden podium and delivered a brief statement.
‘On a human level, one can understand why someone who has held the highest office in the land for several years wishes to cling to power. But the interests of one man count for nothing when the future of the entire country is at stake. The people’s choice must be respected and the message from the voters was clear: the ENP lost the election and Mr Crouch can no longer remain as prime minister. I have no doubt whatsoever that the English people’s innate sense of decency and fairness will prevail, and that Mr Crouch will accept this reality – the sooner the better, in the national interest. The idea that the country’s democratic institutions can be held to ransom by one man is inconceivable. Justice will be done.’
Matt went back inside the building without taking any questions.
Two hours later, as the bells from Westminster Abbey were striking seven o’clock, Matt’s patience was rewarded and he was politely summoned to the Palace.
‘The country needs clarity,’ said Timothy Fitzjohn. ‘His Majesty will see you in an hour’s time. I hope that’s convenient.’